Ribbons
by Virodeil
Summary: Leia loves her hair, and loves it loose. Her family, on the other hand, think it is not proper for a princess. R2-D2 becomes a victim of this war, and Darth Vader a hero. - Warnings: Quite fluffy, frighteningly sweet, but still within reason; read on your teeth's peril.


Ribbons  
By Rey

Story Notes:  
1. One-shot, to celebrate and mark my birthday. It is also a gift for Brievel, who is always happy to read my Star Wars stories, which humbles me. And in fact, this piece was spawned from the idea of Artoo wearing a ribbon that was in turn sparked from one of our conversations.  
2. Fluffy, frighteningly sweet, light, and somewhat silly too, so please beware before reading.  
3. As usual, though this one is an _un_ serious piece, feel free to critique/rant/rail/etc at me for it. Still, I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did writing it!

0.

Leia Organa loves her thick, wavy, rich-brown hair, which tinges a nice deep honey colour in the sun, or so people say.

But at the same time, she hates _anything_ that constrains her hair in any way, however pretty it is, just as she hates being confined indoors, however useful her parents say the reason of confinement will be for her future.

Given this reasoning, Leia, aged five and flitting _everywhere_ quicker than her guards can hope to match, _always_ manages to avoid personally meeting her eldest aunt Deara, when the latter is acting suspicious.

Because suspicious acts, when it comes to Auntie Deara, however properly and primly the woman looks from the outside, means _gaudy_ ribbons and hairpins and elastics and even _wigs_. Once, she even made Leia wear _all of them_ , when the then-four-year-old not-so-incidentally rigged a bucket of water over the doorway the woman was about to pass in pursuit of her!

1.

Leia Organa, aged eight, is more serious, more mature, more calm, to the relief and gladness of her extended family, especially her parents and guards. She still hates hair accessories, however; but sadly, Auntie Deara still gives lots of those to her, and _insists_ that she wear them.

"Appearance is one of the makings of a princess, Leia dearest," the woman always says, while waving about one of those monsters threateningly. She never tires of saying and doing so, unfortunately, for Leia's peace of mind.

And now, for a very, very important dinner with an ambassador from the Empire, the woman has commissioned a particularly-foul monster for her: a multi-sunsetty-coloured crown of ribbons with lots of big jewels all over it, through the spaces in which locks of her poor hair is meant to be entrapped.

Of course, she says "Yes" to Auntie Deara, to appease both the latter and her parents.

And of course, she means "No," and she already has a plan to deal with the monster once and for all. After all, she only promises to appear with the horrendous thing in the party, not to _wear_ it _during_ the party.

"Artoo, help me?"

And the Force bless the awesome programming of her loyal droid friend, he comes to her with a querying beep, not at all suspicious.

"Here, wear this, okay? You can come to the party, then, like Threepio."

The loud, shrill, yodelling shriek the astromech lets loose the second he finishes processing the meaning of her words, and also the implication of the crown of ribbons hovered atop his dome by his mistress, convinces Leia that the horrible thing is indeed a monster.

The fun pursuit that she has with his howling self afterwards, all over the palace, also has the highly-desired benefit of less time to prepare for the dinner, and therefore less time for people to notice that she wears nothing but her hair on top of her head before the said event rolls on.

2.

Leia Organa, aged eight, is a petite girl who radiates energy, warmth and natural charm like the sun that shines down on Alderaan. It is why, when she whirls into the ballroom in her white gown, people pay attention to her radiant smile and sparkling rich-brown eyes ("You seem so chipper this evening, deary," says her mum somewhat suspiciously), then her enthusiastic manner of entry ("That is not how a princess should enter a room, Leia dearest," rebukes Auntie Deara with an exasperated frown), and her simple but tasteful – according to her perfectly-good judgement – gown ("Where's the gown I left for you, Leia? Oh my, this one is really _not_ suitable for a dinner such as this!" frets Auntie Clora), in this very order.

They do not pay attention to the fact that her thick, wavy hair is beautifully and wonderfully unrestrained, whatsoever.

When they _do_ pay attention, given the entrance of a tray-bearing defeated Artoo-Deetoo during the onset of the fragile, dangerous dinner with the Imperial ambassador, who turns out to be _Darth Vader_ himself, it is already _far_ too late.

The crown of ribbons fits snugly round the astromech's dome, framing his photoreceptor rather nicely, in Leia's opinion. See-Threepio, coming behind him with another tray of dinner things, has even contributed several more white ribbons to fill in the spaces that should have been filled with her own hair.

It is perfect.

3.

Darth Vader is wistful, and not because he cannot eat any of the yummy dishes having been served, neither because people seem to be mortally afraid of him, Leia notes quietly, from the other end of the room. People are mingling and dancing now – the people from the Imperial delegation and the people from home – and he just looks on at them wistfully.

No, no, not at them. At _her_ , she is almost certain. She is always kept busy by her family, and kept far away from him too by the same people for an unknown reason, but his melancholic attention is _always_ on her.

Leia Organa believes a princess should be a perfect hostess to any and all people who come peacefully. And Darth Vader, regardless of what her family think of him, comes peacefully to Alderaan right now. A perfect hostess thing to do, then, is to engage him in a conversation or a peaceful action, to draw him away from his melancholy, to _not_ let him be so alone, seated in a corner and watching on like that.

So, trailed along by a sulky ribboned Artoo and a curious Threepio, she weaves her way determinedly to his corner during the split second of Auntie Clora's – her current minder – inattention. She does not know what to say, or what to do for that matter, since he seems to despise meaningless chit-chat, as evident during the tense dinner that has just ended, but that does not matter to her.

It does not matter to him, too, it turns out.

His lap is high, broad, inviting, like Daddy's, or so it feels to her. So, after a perfunctory exchange of greetings, she just scrambles up into that comfy spot and settles in as snugly as she can against the weird, uncomfy black armour.

And he puts his arms round her, almost on reflex, like Daddy does. Nice!

But Auntie Clora is coming – very, very quickly, unlike a proper princess that she is always harping about – and it will mean that Leia will lose her comfy throne just as she is getting comfy. No, she will _not_ , if she can help it.

And she _can_ , though she must sacrifice her poor, poor hair for that.

"Would you like to braid my hair, Lord Vader?"

He does not answer, for a very, very long second, in which Auntie Clora is getting ever closer. But as if knowing – and _agreeing_ – that she does not want to part from him, he tightens his arms round her, snugger than ever.

He feels sad, terribly sad, and even more melancholic than before. She has failed in being a perfect hostess, then? But he does move, detangling some of her hair, disarrayed during some of the more merrier dances.

And at last, he answers, quietly, with an odd tone that makes her want to cry in empathy: "No, little princess. Your hair is good as it is."

But then he takes the monster of ribbons from atop Artoo's head and deconstructs it, uncaring of the huffing-and-puffing Auntie Clora who has just arrived, or the enraged and frightened Auntie Deara who has just spotted his action from across the room.

Leia imitates his nonchalant attitude, lounging comfily within the safety of his arms, watching avidly as he reduces the hated thing into its most basic components. Auntie Clora wheedles, cajoles, threatens and bribes her to vacate her current throne, but she politely declines, just like the woman always teaches her. No bribe is as delightful as watching this monster being unravelled, no threat is as potant as being forced to wear this monster, and she cannot leave the room anyway before the event is wrapped up, so her aunt has no leverage against her.

And the bonus is, she gets to watch Lord Vader repurposing pieces of the monster into a _beautiful_ ribbony circlety crown with white and sunsetty tones, bedecked with jewels peeking slightly out of its folds. And the ultimate prize is? She gets to wear it, with her hair freely loose too!

She feels truly like a queen now, with her throne and her crown and her silent awesome guard, and her wavy locks let free to settle wherever and in whichever way they want.

She gives the enabler of this awesome moment her hugest hug and her most brilliant smile, and does not forget to… "Thank you very much, Lord Vader!"

He feels so very sad, so very pained, but she now thinks it is a good kind of sadness, a good kind of pain, since he hugs her close in return, though Auntie Clora and Auntie Deara are trying to separate them, physically and verbally.

And she must admit, ribbons, too, can be beautiful.


End file.
